Survivor Guilt
by Morgan72uk
Summary: Somehow guilt and House were inextricably associated in her mind. Oneshot about Cuddy's very own psychopathology


Survivor Guilt

By Morgan72uk  
T - for the themes of the story rather than sex or bad language  
Summary: Somehow guilt and House were inextricably associated in her mind.  
Disclaimer: I work for a charity, I'm very poor, please don't sue.  
Thanks to Kimbari for the sensitive and intelligent beta.

Also, I should probably just say that there is some discussion of suicide in this fic. Please think carefully about whether you want to read on.

**Survivor Guilt**

No one is ever going to believe it, but she didn't sleep with him in college. It might have been easier if she had, if she'd got that close to him when they were both younger and didn't have so much communal baggage. But, at the time there was no way she was going to be one of Greg House's conquests. She was too busy with her own agenda, her own achievements. She had known instinctively that he had no interest in sharing the limelight, and that he would consume anyone who didn't stand up to him. Back then she wasn't ready to test the proposition that she might be strong enough to do just that. Now that she was older and sometimes wiser other things dominated their relationship: pain, bitterness and guilt.

They might never even have spoken had it not been for her roommate. Coming back from the library in the early hours of the morning, a mammoth study session behind her, Lisa Cuddy had found Jane from Ohio – who she'd never really got to know - lying on the couch. She'd taken pills, drunk scotch and slashed her wrists, ending her life with an application she had failed to display in any of her assignments. It was not the sort of thing that was supposed to happen to a medical student and, although everyone assured her that she'd done all she could, it was of little consolation to Lisa - since Jane from Ohio was still dead.

She was a minor celebrity on campus after that, but for all the wrong reasons. She scarcely noticed because she was too busy blaming herself - for not suspecting, for not stopping her. It turned out to be a familiar, unpleasant story but she pieced it together anyway because there was no one else to do it. A vulnerable young woman, falling grades, an unhappy love affair and parents she was afraid to disappoint. None of this information made Cuddy feel any better.

People took pity on her, dragged her out to bars and parties and tried to take her mind off her feelings of guilt. But she wasn't a natural party-goer, which somehow made it all the worse when she found herself looking across a bar at the jerk who had dumped Jane; cavorting with some cheer-leader as though he didn't have a care in the world.

She was reaching for her drink when a hand on her wrist stopped her. Only later did it occur to her to wonder how he had realised what she was planning. His touch on her skin was cool and distracting and she had to concentrate as he said, "Don't. It's a waste of good alcohol."

She'd never spoken to Greg House – although like everyone else on campus she was aware of his existence. She'd heard a hundred stories about him; some she was sure were exaggerated. But there he was, sitting beside her as though they were old acquaintances. "The guy's a self-centred, egotistical idiot and he's also pretty dumb. None of that is going to change if you throw a perfectly good glass of vodka and tonic over him. And it won't make you feel any less guilty."

"I should have…"

"Saved her?" His voice was laced with scorn. "You didn't have the same friends or the same goals, you didn't exactly move in the same academic circles. You shared physical space that's all. But for the stroke of some clerk's pen you would have had nothing to do with this. It wasn't your responsibility. You can't fix everything Lisa Cuddy."

The analysis was not one that she cared to dispute; it was far too close to all the things she was already aware of. But it was disconcerting that he knew all this about her when they had never even met. "How do you know I feel guilty? How do you know anything about me?"

"Someone pointed you out, and guilt is pretty easy to read when you know what to look for."

"And you do?" He'd shrugged and seemed to lose interest in the subject.

"If I were you I'd save my energy for more rewarding activities – sex, drinking, rock and roll." His hand was still on her wrist, but his fingers smoothed over the sensitive skin and she shuddered. "I'd be happy to help," he offered, not even trying to hide that he was coming on to her.

"So, I shouldn't assuage my guilt by throwing a drink over someone, but screwing you to stop feeling guilty is OK?"

"Screwing me won't stop you feeling guilty. It will feel good though – and you look as though you could do with some loosening up." She rolled her eyes at this and pulled her arm out of his grasp.

"I think I'll pass."

"Your loss."

She was younger then and the idea of simply taking comfort in someone's body was an affront to all kinds of romantic notions she had long since forgotten. She knew better now, just as she knew that comfort was no longer such an easy thing to find. These days it would take more than a warm and willing body.

It was months before she saw or spoke to him again. But his words stayed with her; his pronouncement that she couldn't fix everything a taunt she couldn't resist. In a precursor of everything she would later become, she reviewed the counselling services on campus and found them severely lacking. Her drive and determination to improve this situation lead her to discover, to her surprise, that she was good at persuading people to do things. She used guilt to force the University authorities to find premises and some scraps of funding, recruited volunteers by speaking all over campus and before she knew quite how she had done it, she'd set up a student led drop-in centre, providing support, advice and someone to listen. All of the things that Jane had needed and not been able to find.

It was the first of many such initiatives and it was this ability to garner support, to set up projects, to make things happen that would make her the second youngest chief of medicine in the country.

"I'm impressed."

It was late at night in a quiet campus coffee shop and she was pouring over a textbook. She was studying harder then ever, working at the drop-in centre in her spare time and still the guilt was there, tugging at her like a child demanding attention. Her irritation at the interruption faded when she realised who had pulled up a chair to sit opposite her.

"You might not have been able to prevent one suicide but you'll do everything you can to stop anyone else taking that way out. I should have known an over-achiever like you would make sure you really excelled at feeling guilty." There was nothing kind about his tone, but she thought there was grudging respect in there somewhere.

"I couldn't just stand by and do nothing."

His gaze was coolly appraising. "There's a lot to be said for doing nothing," he commented, "but at least this way all the interfering busybodies are out of the way, making themselves feel better someplace where they can't bother the rest of us."

"Is that what you think I've done – made myself feel better?"

"Well, obviously. Althoguh I'm prepared to give you credit for finding an impressive fix for your guilt. Makes me wonder what you'll do if you ever have something to really feel guilty about."

"Medicine is meant to be about helping people, I was just…"

"Medicine is about disease and illness." His analysis was clear, but slightly shocking. She knew that doctors could come to despise patients, she knew that doctors could be arrogant and patronising, but it had never occurred to her that someone could become a doctor and not really like people at all.

"You are going to have to see patients in order to treat them."

"That remains to be seen." He leant across the table and finished her coffee. "So, how about a drink?"

The invitation was issued with the nonchalance of one who expected to have it accepted, but she hesitated. His too accurate interpretation of her behaviour made her feel vulnerable and she wasn't sure she wanted to spend the evening having him dissect her. But there was something tempting about the offer, something tempting about his long, lean body and astringent personality, so different from the polite, well-mannered boys she usually dated. Different and dangerous.

"I heard you were seeing someone," she said, playing for time.

"I got bored – it's been known to happen." He smiled lazily. "You going to screw one of those bleeding heart boys who follow you around?"

"I'm thinking about it," she offered. It wasn't true exactly but she wasn't sure she wanted him to know that.

"You know they only volunteer because they want to sleep with you. They don't really care about listening to other people's problems."

"Whereas you have the same intention – without even pretending to care?" His mouth twisted into a smile and he dipped his head in what she took to be acknowledgement of her analysis.

"Points for honesty?"

"I don't think so."

"You know there are quite a few other women on campus I haven't slept with. I'm not going to like you any more because I think you're a challenge... because you're resisting me."

"I can live with that."

He pushed himself up from her table, his movements graceful but still full of barely controlled energy. It was no surprise that he had to have the last word.

"You know, some day you're going to ask me to buy you a drink."

The next time she saw him he was in no state to buy her a drink. The next time they came face to face, she was his doctor and her hospital had misdiagnosed him. She knew that the popular mythology of their relationship was that if she hadn't slept with him in college, then she must have done so after the infarction. But no one who had been around then, who really saw what had happened was ever going to believe that.

For weeks after the operation he refused to speak to her, to even acknowledge her existence. She and Stacy formed an uneasy alliance that developed into a friendship, if only because they'd both borne the brunt of his rage. And when Stacy left, driven away by his bitterness, that was just one more thing to add to her guilt.

The only time House ever referred to their prior acquaintance was when she offered him a job. Four other Deans of Medicine had decided he was more trouble than he was worth but she was certain that she needed him.

He wouldn't come to her office, so she'd tracked him down to a physiotherapy appointment and made him the offer while he was trying to strengthen his remaining muscles enough to be able to walk.

His eyes had been scornful as she'd spoken, startling blue against red rims and every word she uttered seemed to summon up memories of those earlier conversations. She hadn't thought of Jane in years but when she finished he said simply,

"Well, now I know what you're prepared to do when you have reason to feel guilty."

But he hadn't turned down her offer and he had negotiated ferociously over details which, if she had known how little work she was going to get out of him, she would never have given way on.

And now, here they were years later, bruised and battle-weary and as she leaned against the wall outside the ER she was faced with a growing realisation that she was about to have another suicide on her conscience.

The ER Attending emerged and shook his head. The small group of staff waiting for news gasped, but she didn't move, couldn't somehow. Clutched in her hand was the suicide note. Addressed to her in neat, precise handwriting it was a well-composed, apparently lucid explanation of why life had ceased to have any meaning. Her Head of Cardiology had even taken the time to explain why he killed himself in his office – because medical staff are used to seeing death and he didn't want one of his neighbours to find him.

The man had been nearing retirement, his wife had died almost a year before, they had no children, but he could have done so much with his life. He'd just chosen not to. And Cuddy believed she should have been able to see how unhappy he was.

Looking around her at the shocked faces of her staff she knew she had to take charge now. Without really meaning to she turned her head – and found herself face to face with a figure she recognised all too easily. House had been no fan of the dead man and she didn't expect any hypocrisy from him now. But his own grip on life seemed so tenuous that she worried how easily it could be dislodged.

He didn't speak, just looked at her for a long moment, reading her thoughts, seeing her guilt all too plainly. And then he turned and limped away without looking back.

She didn't expect that would be his last comment on the subject and was not surprised when, with the bad timing she had come to expect, he walked into her office just as she was leaving to go to a local nursing home to visit to the dead man's sister.

"What's it going to be this time?" he enquired. "I'm guessing you won't be able to offer all the relatives jobs, so are we about to get a hospital-wide support group, in case anymore of your doctors are feeling suicidal?"  
"Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Not right now. You know how your psycho-pathology calls to me."

"My narcissism you mean?" He didn't dispute the label.

"At least this one didn't fall off your roof. How do you manage to carry so much guilt around with you, Cuddy? Do you tell yourself it's what spurs you on? Or that it's the price you pay for being successful but not happy?" His words stung, as he'd intended, but she couldn't be late and in fact this wasn't anything he hadn't already said to her at some point over the years. Not much changed between them.

There are some people who don't think she'd slept with him, but who believe that she'd kept him around because she felt guilty. They might not know the identity of the doctor who agreed to operate on him when he was in a coma but they know she was Dean of Medicine at the time. People seem to find it easy to believe that she would put herself through years of misery and insubordination because the hospital didn't diagnose the infarction quickly enough. The irony was, of course, that they were right about the guilt but wrong about the link to his job. If he'd been an average doctor she would have found some other way to assuage her guilt; and even if the infarction hadn't happened she would have offered him a job.

She didn't sleep with him in college, after the infarction, after Stacy left, or in the intervening years. But, after midnight, she was standing outside his door, leaning on his bell, with no idea what had lead her here, or what she was going to do next.

She'd kept the despair and guilt at bay all day, buried herself in administrative details, in managing the fall out. But now it was late and she'd run out of tasks to hide in. Now, the knowledge that a dry, rather boring man had addressed his suicide note to her because there was no one else was a weight too much to bear.

And everything House had ever said about her guilt was true, but she didn't know what else to do, so this was where she'd come. Somehow guilt and House were inextricably associated in her mind.

He took his time in answering but she kept her finger on the bell, leaning on the doorframe when standing up became too demanding. Eventually lights were turned on and when the door opened she realised she had got him out of bed and that he had hastily pulled on clothing. He didn't look surprised to see her.

"A long time ago you offered to buy me a drink," she said. He frowned for a moment, obviously trying to place the memory.

"That was 20 years ago."

"I'm slow on the uptake. Does the offer still stand?"

"That depends... if I let you in, are you going to wallow?"

"I have no earthly idea."

He regarded her levelly for a moment and then stood aside to let her in. "Well, that's a start I suppose."

There was a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table and two glasses. He reached over and poured, leaving her marooned just inside the door, too tired to even try to take control of the situation.

"Was Wilson here?" she asked, nodding towards the extra glass.  
"Your speculation about my social life is a little uninspired. What makes you think I haven't left Cameron in the bedroom?"

"Because if you had she'd be out here to see what I wanted the moment she heard my voice." She downed the shot of scotch quickly but shook her head when he offered her a refill.

"OK... so the extra glass was for you. I was expecting a visit."

"Why?"

"Even your capacity for guilt has to have limits Cuddy. It's time to find a different way of dealing with it."

"Says the master of not dealing."

"I exist – in lots of ways it's enough."

"No, it isn't." She put the glass down, already regretting the impulse that had brought her here. She headed for the door but his voice called her back.

"I can't chose to live to make you feel better."

"I know that."

The guilt goes back a long way, further than him, further even than Jane in college. As a child she'd scarcely been aware of the whispers of her aunts and grandparents, of the way quiet sometimes suffused the house. She had taken her mother's fragility for granted, never thought it unusual or out of the ordinary. Until one day, a cousin a couple of years her senior, bursting with information and the need to share it had told her that there had been 2 babies, that she had lived, while a boy, smaller and deformed, had died. She has been atoning for something she could not possibly have prevented for all of her life. She can date her desire to become a doctor from that moment, as though the two concepts – guilt and recompense had fused. And the guilt shaped the kind of doctor she had become, pushed her ever onwards with restless ambition.

She looked at the man she had known for over 20 years, thinking about mistakes, missed chances and the way he lived his life.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted for what felt like the first time.

"I've been waiting a long time to hear you say that."

His step towards her wasn't smooth; it couldn't be, given his maimed leg. The hands that stripped away her clothing weren't young anymore, his breath in her ear and on her skin was harsh, but his touch was unexpectedly gentle, almost soothing. She moved with him, above him, taking pleasure in the sounds she dragged from him, from the way his hands twisted in her hair.

The older you get, the harder it is to find comfort. She had lived long enough, seen suffering enough, to know that. It was ironic that House might just have rescued her, when she believed there was no possibility she could do the same for him.

But it was too complicated to think. Lethargy tugged at her. The bed was warm, the sheets soft and the curve of his body around hers a temptation. But she couldn't let herself stay.

She started to move, but he reached for her, catching her by the wrist and the single word was an echo of the first word he had ever spoken to her. "Don't." His voice was sleepy and soft and when she looked over her shoulder at him, his expression said he did not know how to ask for what he wanted.

It wasn't exactly full circle, but it was close. It wasn't exactly a resolution, but then that might be beyond them. She let him tug her back towards him, let him pull the covers over them and sank into the warmth of his body as though it were a place to hide.

As she drifted off to sleep she thought it might be good to lay down the guilt she had been carrying around with her for so long. To just rest and, for once, let tomorrow take care of itself.

The End


End file.
